


The Heart Line Affair

by LadyRa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-08
Updated: 2005-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya reads Napoleon's palm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Line Affair

Illya:

Illya looked out the window of the old brownstone that housed most of the New York-based U.N.C.L.E. agents. He sighed as he watched Napoleon get into the back seat of a taxi. Illya couldn't help but notice the impeccable tuxedo framing Napoleon's body. 

"Imbecile." The word was softly spoken but heartfelt. The problem was that Illya wasn't sure if his anger was directed at his partner or at himself. Both? Yes, definitely both. 

As the taxi drove off, Illya tried not to think about where Napoleon was going. Or with whom. Tried not to think about Napoleon and women in general. Quite a challenge considering they flocked around him as if he were God's gift to the female of the species. Which, Illya supposed, he was. Handsome, educated, well-employed, clever, dangerous, silver-tongued and, at least by reputation, quite a lover.

Illya scowled as he thought of Barbie. A typical sampling of Napoleon's taste. Blonde, big blue eyes, full lips. 

Illya sighed. Tonight it was his fault Napoleon was with a woman. Napoleon had asked Illya to attend the symphony with him. Had walked into his office, joined him by the file cabinet, and held up the tickets, waving them under Illya's nose. 

Illya had wanted to go, and not only because he wanted to be with Napoleon. It was one of his favorite symphonies, and he had actually thought about buying tickets himself, a rare indulgence. But he hadn't found the time to make the purchase. 

In any case, before he'd had a chance to say yes, Barbie had come into the office. Napoleon had given her his usual predatory smile and done nothing when she'd leaned on him, her breasts pressing against his arm as she reached for the mail lying in Illya's outbox.

Illya sighed again, cursing his temper. All it had ever done was get him in trouble.

Illya knew he had no claim on Napoleon. Certainly not that type of claim, despite the fact that he wanted to have one. Wanted it badly; but it was past time to reconcile himself to the fact that it would never happen. Illya had dropped a hint or two, subtle perhaps, but Illya couldn’t imagine how a man with Napoleon's sexual radar could have missed it. Napoleon hadn't even seemed to notice, and that meant he probably wasn't interested.

Illya watched as Barbie practically ground herself into Napoleon, the blatant invitation impossible to ignore, and Illya had felt his blood pressure rising. He was exasperated with Napoleon's blindness, and vexed with the brazen hussy making a pass at his partner. Mostly he was annoyed that Napoleon didn't seem to be in any hurry to make her stop.

Cutting off his nose to spite his face, Illya finally snapped, "Perhaps you should take Barbie to the symphony. You seem so close." 

Illya had taken an involuntary step backwards at the flash of anger in Napoleon's eyes. Glancing down, he saw that Napoleon had been doing his best to hide the tickets from Barbie's sight. But now it was too late.

She gushed. "Napoleon, I'd love to!" 

Napoleon had closed his eyes, his lips tight. He'd let out a little sound that was mostly not a laugh and then turned to Barbie, a bright smile on his face. "Perfect. I'll pick you up at seven."

And that had been that. Both of them had swept out of his office, leaving Illya standing there. Now he was here--alone in his apartment--when he could have been with Napoleon. Meanwhile Napoleon was with some barracuda that was certainly not planning on spending the night alone in her bed.

"Imbecile." Illya went to pour himself a drink.

Napoleon:

Napoleon grit his teeth as Barbie let out another one of her grating laughs. He knew the intermission was only fifteen minutes long but it felt interminable. Praying for the chimes that would precipitate the mass immigration back into the concert hall, he swallowed down the last half of his second drink, giving serious thought to buying a third. 

Damn Illya. Damn that mouth of his. He wanted to be here with his partner, not the vacuous woman hanging onto his arm like some remora. No, too benign. Like some leech. 

If Illya was here with him they'd be leaning against a wall, having a quiet conversation, playing one of their favorite games. Who's a spy and who do they work for? Or Napoleon would be listening as Illya told stories about the composer, or the conductor. Shocking stories. Entertaining stories. Napoleon would be doing his best not to laugh, not even to smile, only to fail spectacularly at some point as Illya used his razor wit to break through Napoleon's façade. 

"Idiot."

"What's that, Napoleon, dear?" Barbie gazed up at him, simpering.

Napoleon shook his head, and then brightened when the chimes went off. "They're playing our song. Shall we go back in?"

She clutched at his arm and then let off a squeal. "Ooh, there's Amanda. Let's go in that way so she'll see us." With that, Napoleon felt his arm almost tugged out of its socket as she made a beeline toward the entrance opposite their seats.

Napoleon barely kept the scowl off his face. This was the fourth time she'd done this tonight. He hated it. The games, the one-upmanship. Not that he didn't know how to play. He did. He'd done it most of his life, but he was tired of it. Weary to his bones. He wanted someone who wanted him for him. 

These tickets had been the first step toward attaining that goal. Hoping he hadn't misread the subtle signals Illya had been putting out, Napoleon had thought this first step through carefully. Nothing too forward, just in case he'd misinterpreted. 

He’d almost missed the signals. Had missed at least one of them. His partner's prods were so subtle as to be nonexistent. Typical Illya, hide the hints out in plain sight where they’d be taken as normal behavior. He’d brought Napoleon a cup of coffee. That’s it. Just a cup of coffee. Napoleon had glanced up, seen the coffee, made a gesture for Illya to put it down on his desk and gone back to the file he was reading. 

It was only chance--or pure luck--that he’d looked up just as Illya was putting the coffee down. It was only there for a second but the expression on Illya’s face was unspeakably sad. It had made Napoleon’s heart clench.

That sad look told Napoleon that something was up. After some serious reflecting, Napoleon realized that Illya was being solicitous. Bringing him coffee, opening doors, saying please and thank you. Napoleon hadn’t given any of it a thought, simply assumed that the grumpy Russian had read a book on manners. Napoleon finally decided it was Illya’s very, very subtle form of courting. So, Napoleon took a chance and bought the tickets. 

But then Illya had practically shoved him at Barbie. "Idiot."

Barbie hissed at him. "Napoleon."

Napoleon looked up and realized he was being introduced to someone. He put on a gracious smile, said the right things, and then escorted Barbie into the hall, to what should have been his and Illya's seats. As they sat down, Napoleon glanced at his watch. It was going to be a long night.

Illya:

Early the next morning, Illya sat in Waverly's office looking at a case file. He'd been glad to be called in, even on a Saturday, as it kept him from wondering where Napoleon was.

"Where am I meeting the contact?" Illya asked.

"There's a carnival in Central Park, near the northwest entrance. You'll meet him there in the fortune teller's tent."

Illya nodded and then his brows furrowed. "The fortune teller's tent?" He suddenly had a bad feeling about the whole affair. 

"Yes." Waverly looked at the clock on the wall. "You'll be replacing the fortune teller when she takes her lunch at noon."

"She?"

Waverly waved his hand. "I don't believe it necessary that you dress up as a gypsy woman, Mr. Kuryakin. However, I do expect you to fit in with the general scheme of things. I trust you can do that?"

Illya nodded. That he could do. He could dress up as a woman, too, if the situation warranted it, but he was just as glad that it didn't. Mentally he reviewed the costumes he had on hand.

"Was there anything else, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya glanced up, saw that Waverly was giving him an impatient stare. "No. No." Illya stood up, case file in hand. "I'll bring the information in as soon as it's secured."

"Very good."

Hearing the implied dismissal, Illya left Waverly's office.

Napoleon:

It had been a close one. Managing not to sleep with Barbie had taken every negotiating skill he had, and he had still not come away completely unscathed. Napoleon had had to promise to accompany Barbie to a carnival. So, here they were. At a carnival.

The screams of children on a mixed adrenaline and sugar high assaulted his eardrums. The food was unappealing, the rides were run by men Napoleon would rather be interrogating than trusting his person to, and the band currently bleating on stage needed to fire their drummer. And the lead guitarist. And the singer.

Napoleon massaged his shoulder. She was still doing it, dragging him from one corner of the park to the other every time she thought she saw someone she knew. Napoleon started mentally practicing his 'why this won't work' speech. The sooner he could deliver it, the sooner he could leave and perhaps enjoy some of his weekend. 

Napoleon wondered what Illya was doing. Not that it mattered. Sitting with Illya at his apartment, simply sharing the newspaper while they drank coffee and ate bagels with cream cheese and lox would be better than this. In fact, Napoleon couldn't think of anything he'd rather be doing.

"Ooh, Napoleon, look! A fortune teller." They were standing a few yards away from a sculpted tent that peaked at the top and was draped in heavily embroidered fabric.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. Great. A fortune teller. That was the last thing he needed. Especially if the idiot inside took a look at him and Barbie and started gushing about weddings and babies. No, thank you.

He gave Barbie what he hoped was a passable grin. "You go in. Get your fortune told. I'll be waiting for you over there." Napoleon pointed at a bench that looked like it wasn't entirely covered in pigeon droppings. 

Barbie pouted. "Oh, Nappy. Let's get our fortunes told together. It'll be such fun."

Napoleon shook his head. "Ah, no. Really. I need to check in with headquarters." A blatant lie, but Napoleon knew it would work.

Barbie pouted some more. "All right, but I'm going to ask her if she sees a tall, dark, and handsome man in my future."

Wonderful. "You do that." Napoleon walked her to the booth to buy her a ticket, and then to the gauzy curtain which was lifted by the attendant when they approached. Napoleon gave Barbie a pasted-on smile as she entered the tent. Once she was inside, Napoleon sprinted to the bench, wanting to be out of her reach in case Barbie decided he simply had to accompany her. 

Sitting on the bench, suppressing the urge to run for it while he had the chance, Napoleon let his thoughts drift to his partner.

Illya:

Illya sat at his table, waiting for the next customer. He'd already met with his contact, and the microfiche was tucked safely away. But he needed to stay for the entire lunch hour so as to not blow his cover. 

The regular fortune teller used cards to reveal the future. Illya had decided to go with palm reading. It was a skill he had learned while traveling with the gypsies and remembered well enough to satisfy paying customers. 

Even though Illya was well aware that the average male gypsy wouldn't be caught dead in what he was wearing, Illya knew this was what his customers would expect to see. He was dressed in white from head to toe, the fabric loose and blousy. Soft to the touch, the material shimmered. Around his waist was a fabric tie, of bright purples and blues, ending in several long tassels. It matched the vest he wore, as well as the turban. 

Illya had darkened his skin until he looked like a well-tanned Mediterranean. He'd pasted on darker eyebrows, as well as a lush mustache. The metamorphosis was complete with dark contacts that disguised his blue eyes, and some extra padding around his nose to change the landscape of his face. 

Hearing the attendant speak to someone, Illya waited for his next client. When Barbie walked in, Illya started, and then mentally castigated himself for showing any reaction. Even with the mental thrashing, Illya couldn't help glancing behind her, looking for his partner. When no one followed her in, Illya tried not to let it mean anything. Like the fact that if she was alone, perhaps she hadn’t spent the night with Napoleon. 

  
With a nervous titter, the woman sat down. "I didn't see a sign. What sort of readings do you do?"

Illya held out his hand. "I will read your palm." He laid on the accent rather heavily. Another thing the customer expected.

She hesitated, holding up both hands. "Does it matter which one I give you?"

"Your left hand reveals your fantasies, your hopes and dreams. Your right hand reveals how you present yourself to the world and how you interact with it. Tell me what it is you wish to know, and I will tell you which hand I must read."

Eyes wide, Barbie clasped her hands together. "Well--" She leaned back as if to try and see outside the tent. Then she leaned forward to take Illya into her confidence. "There's this man. I want to know how I can keep him."

Illya was just as glad he didn't have his gun with him. Not that there weren't a dozen things in the tent he could use as a means of dismembering the woman in front of him. But having to think about what method to use gave him the few seconds he needed to realize that Waverly would probably disapprove. 

He suppressed a sigh. "This man--you love him?"

"I could. He's a good catch. And very handsome. Can you look at my palm and tell me what my chances are?"

Illya nodded. "Give me your left hand."

Barbie held it out and Illya took it within his hands, examining the lines running across her palm. He took a moment to devise his strategy. 

"Well?"

"The seeing arts take time, young lady. They cannot be rushed."

She shifted in her seat, nodding penitently. "I'm sorry."

"There are three main lines. The life line, the heart line and the head line. The life line is here." Illya ran an index finger from the base of her thumb and followed the curve to where it ended between thumb and index finger.

"Ooh, that tickles." Barbie's hand jerked a little.

"The heart line is here." He traced the line that ran across the palm beneath her fingers. "And the head line lies between." The last line he traced ran almost parallel to the heart line, curving away at the sides of her palm.

She inched forward. "What do they tell you?"

"Many people think that the life line tells you how long you will live, but they are wrong." Illya gave her a look under his bushy brows. "Instead, it speaks of your enthusiasm for life, and your willingness to fight for what you want. Your life line is very deep."

"That's a good thing, right?"

Illya nodded, keeping his dark thoughts to himself. There was no doubt in his mind that she would fight very hard to keep what she wanted. "I can tell you are a person of high energy who embraces challenge and opportunity."

Barbie smiled, pleased. "Go on."

"This curve?" Illya traced the line again. "It shows you are good with children."

"Does it say how many children we'll have?"

Illya spoke through a clenched jaw. "No."

"Never mind. Tell me about my heart line. What does that say? Will I get my man?"

Illya traced her heart line again. "This man, he is tall, with dark hair?"

Barbie nodded vigorously. "Yes. Do you see him there?"

Illya tried not to roll his eyes at her question. It was as if she expected to see a slide show on her palm. "Yes, I see him. He lives a life of danger."

Her eyes opened wide and she let out a gasp. "Oh my gosh, how do you know that?"

"The hands cannot lie."

"Tell me more."

Illya frowned, tracing her line again.

She leaned forward, quivering with excitement. "What? What is it? What do you see?"

"You are sure this man is the one for you?"

There was a significant pause. "I--I think so. Why?"

"I see hidden danger. There is much peril for you if you continue to see this man."

This time the gasp was more dramatic. "What do you mean?"

Illya could hardly tell her that the peril was coming from him, his own desire to strangle her. "The lines do not tell all, they simply say what is. Treachery, betrayal, wrath. I cannot say from where or why, but the danger is there." 

At the look of anxiety in her eyes, Illya almost felt ashamed of himself. Almost. She shot him a beseeching look. "What should I do?"

"You must harden your heart. This is not the path for you." He touched her heart line again, feeling the need to soften the blow. "But, I do see a great love ahead for you. But now is not the time. And this is not the man."

She stared down at her hand. "You do? You see a great love for me?"

And just for an instant, Illya could. Every now and then he was touched with real sight. He saw a man, with red hair, standing by her, two small children at their sides, another in her arms. Seeing the happiness on her face in the brief vision, Illya nodded. "Yes, a man with red hair. He will love you very much, and give you the family you desire."

Illya snuck another look at Barbie and realized that she was very young. Not that it made her behavior any more palatable, but it did offer a partial explanation. 

She sat back, her hand still resting in Illya's hand. "Red hair. Hmm."

Illya couldn't keep the smirk of his face. Obviously she wasn't going to waste any time pining over Napoleon. He let go of her hand.

Barbie stood. "Wow, this was--this was something." She glanced down at her hand, tracing the lines there. A look of determination crossed her face. "All I can say is that it's a good thing we came to this carnival today. I might have made an awful mistake." With that, she left the inner room, said a quick goodbye to the attendant and was out of the tent.

Illya leaned back in his chair and grinned.

Napoleon:

Napoleon saw Barbie sweep out of the tent and stood, walking to meet her. When he got to within six feet of her she held up her hand. "Stop right there. I'm afraid this just isn't going to work, Napoleon. You're not the man for me. I’m sorry." 

Napoleon's jaw dropped open. "What?"

She stepped closer to him, close enough to give him a consoling pat on his arm. "I’m sure you'll find someone, Nappy, but it just can't be me. Try to understand."

Napoleon was only too happy to understand. But he did do his best to look devastated. "I just want you to be happy, Barbie."

"I will be." She gave him another pat for good measure. "Please don't call me. I'm sure we can be pleasant to each other at work but I think this will be easier if we just say goodbye now."

Napoleon wanted to do a happy dance across the grass. "If you think that's best."

"I do. Goodbye, Napoleon."

"Goodbye, Barbie." Napoleon stood there, elatedly stunned, as Barbie made her way out of the park and hailed a cab. Chewing on his bottom lip for a minute, Napoleon turned toward the tent. He owed this particular fortune teller a debt of gratitude. 

Napoleon toyed with the idea of going in to see her. As far as he was concerned, all of this hocus-pocus was done with smoke and mirrors. But there was no doubt that whoever was in there had told Barbie the right stuff, at least for Napoleon. Curiosity finally eating him alive, he made his way to the booth to buy a ticket, and then as the attendant opened the curtain, he stepped inside.

The man surprised him; Napoleon had been expecting a woman. "Oh. Hello." He was further surprised when it looked as if the man was equally startled to see him. Napoleon gestured back toward the attendant. "He said you were open." He made a motion to the empty seat across from the fortune teller. "May I?"

The man nodded, and then spoke in a heavy Romanian accent. "Yes, of course."

Napoleon considered the man for a moment; there was something familiar about him. He tapped his lips with the knuckle of his index finger and then let it go as he sat down. "You just saw a woman in here. I'm curious as to what you told her."

The man shook his head. "Her future is for her to know."

Napoleon beat out a short rhythm on the table. "Right." Then he smiled. "I'm game." He looked around. "Where's your crystal ball?"

"I read palms." The man lay out his hand, palm up. "Give me your left hand."

Napoleon stared down at the large hand lying on the table. He felt a prickle of warning race down his spine, but couldn't imagine himself in any danger. He didn't even know he'd be coming into this tent, how could anyone else? Surely Thrush wouldn't have set up a trap in every fortune teller's tent across the city on the slim hope that Napoleon would stumble into one.

Napoleon slowly rested his hand, palm up, in the hand of the fortune teller. For a second he thought he'd been electrocuted as a small tingle, like the bubbles from a good bottle of champagne, raced through his body. 

The man ran the fingers of his other hand over the lines on Napoleon's palm.

Illya:

As soon as Napoleon entered the tent, Illya waited for his partner to recognize him. When the first minute passed without denouement, Illya still knew it was only a matter of time. There was a reason why Napoleon was the CEA; there wasn't much that got by him. However, on his partner’s behalf, there was absolutely no reason for him to suspect that things weren’t exactly as they seemed. And, naturally, Illya was very good at disguises.

In the meantime, until Napoleon’s instincts caught up with him, the situation left Illya with two choices. The first was that he cease and desist immediately and reveal his identity. He and Napoleon could have a good laugh, at Napoleon's expense of course, and then go get a drink.

His second choice was based in insanity. Even though it was sure to backfire on him, Illya could use these few minutes before Napoleon caught on to say what he'd been wanting to say to Napoleon for a long time. Maybe Illya could find the courage to say the words with a cushion of illusion between them.

He chose the path of insanity. Illya traced Napoleon's heart line with his thumb. "Are you looking for love, then?"

Napoleon's smile was charming. "Everyone's looking for love."

Illya leaned forward, Napoleon's hand now captured in his. "Many people are afraid to love. Are you afraid to love?"

Illya fully expected Napoleon to laugh or throw out some glib answer with the height of indifference, so Illya was surprised when his partner seemed to take the question seriously. "Not if it was the right person."

"So is that why you are here? To try to find that right person?"

Napoleon pulled his hand back a little, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I thought I was here to watch you play parlor tricks."

Illya shook his head. "This is not a game. Love--real love--is never a game."

Napoleon looked down at his hand. "And my hand holds all the answers, does it?"

"Everything you seek is right in front of you, yours for just the asking."

Napoleon scowled. "Sometimes asking isn't as easy as it seems. Especially when the one you want to ask is as stubborn as an ox."

Illya felt his heart start to race. While not the most flattering of compliments, it fanned the hope that had been lying dormant in his chest. "Sometimes a stubborn face hides a nervous heart."

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Now you're sounding like a Chinese fortune cookie." He pulled his hand away. "Which reminds me, I'm hungry and it's time for lunch."

Illya put a hand up to stop him. He knew if Napoleon walked out of this tent, Illya's newborn hope would shatter, and any chance of their getting together would leave with him. "The object of your affection loves you as well."

Napoleon settled back in his chair, frowning at Illya. "How would you know that?"

Illya could feel Napoleon's brain putting clues together; it wouldn't be long now. He searched his mind for something to say, the right thing to say. "Give me your hand again."

Napoleon hesitated for a moment, then laid his hand back on top of Illya's palm. He muttered under his breath, "I must be out of my mind."

Illya again traced his heart line. "I see that your heart line changes half way across your palm."

Napoleon leaned in to see better. "Where?"

Illya pointed. "See how this first half has many broken lines off of it?"

Napoleon nodded. 

"It tells me that most of your relationships up to now have been little more than casual friendships."

Napoleon shrugged. "And the other half?"

Despite Napoleon's shrug, Illya took in the slightly guarded lines to his partner's shoulders. His friend hid it well, but Illya could see that all those casual relationships had taken a toll on Napoleon. He traced the bottom half of Napoleon's heart line. "This tells a different story."

Napoleon leaned even closer, as if he really wanted to know, needed to hear that his life could and would be different.

Illya had no intention of disappointing him. "This line says that you will find a deep love. A love filled with passion, a love that will complete you."

Napoleon glanced up at him, his eyes shadowed. Illya felt a pang in his own heart for the sadness he saw in his friend's eyes. Napoleon's lips tightened and then--Illya watched it happen--Napoleon's eyes widened, and then narrowed. He knew.

Napoleon:

It was Illya. Napoleon was chagrined that it had taken him so long to see through his disguise. Granted, there had been absolutely no reason to even suspect, although he had felt that momentary hint of danger when he'd walked in the tent that he had then completely disregarded. He'd have to give himself a stern talking-to later about ignoring his instincts.

At the moment, though, he needed a few seconds to decide what to do, to figure out what was actually happening here. What game was Illya playing? 

He stared at Illya, could see the recognition in Illya's eyes that said he knew he'd been found out. But neither man moved nor spoke and Napoleon's hand still rested in Illya's palm.

Napoleon smiled to himself. It certainly explained the tingles from before. At least part of him had known it was Illya right from the start. Napoleon cleared his throat. "So, my hand is telling you that I'm gearing up for the grand passion of my life?"

Illya nodded.

Now that he knew it was Illya, Napoleon couldn't believe he'd been duped. Yes, it was one of Illya's better disguises, but even though the eyes were brown, they were still Illya's. And what they were saying to him was creating a whole new set of tingles.

"And you say this person is sitting right in front of me, mine for the asking?"

Illya nodded again.

"I don't suppose this great love of mine has blond hair and blue eyes?"

Again a nod.

Napoleon pursed his lips and then grinned. "You know, I had one of those just a little while ago, but you sent her packing."

Illya frowned at him. "She was not the right blonde for you."

Napoleon cocked his head to the side. "It's funny you say that. I actually thought the same thing. But then, this infuriating, pigheaded, green-eyed with jealousy, person I know, seemed to push me right at her." Napoleon bit back a grin at the annoyed glint in Illya's eyes.

"The path toward true love does not always run smoothly."

"And there you go with the fortune cookies again." Napoleon retrieved his hand and clasped his both together, templing his index fingers as he leaned forward on his elbows. Then, deciding he was already missing the feel of Illya’s light caresses, he rested his left hand on the table in invitation. "Does it happen to say in there whether or not the object of my affection will stand still long enough for me to speak of my great love?"

Illya brushed Napoleon's palm with his fingers. "Yes, you will find this love of yours waiting for you when you get home."

Napoleon swallowed against the desire this simplest of touches aroused in him and felt a heaviness in his groin. "So, if I happened to knock on the door to apartment eleven at, say, around 7:00 this evening, the object of my affection will open the door and invite me into his home?"

Illya laced his fingers through Napoleon's. "And his heart and his bed."

Napoleon had to close his eyes to keep from leaping across the table and tackling Illya right now. He marshaled every inch of his self-control and opened his eyes. The answering flash of desire he saw in Illya's didn't help. He pulled his hand back and stood. "Then, I’d better go. I have some things I need to take care of before then." 

Napoleon took a step backwards, only to make sure he didn't pounce forwards. He wracked his brain trying to think of anything to say, but all he could think of were declarations of undying love, and he wanted to save those for tonight. Finally, he just smiled, and ducked out of the tent.

Illya:

Illya stood as Napoleon swept out of the tent, but his legs were so shaky he had to sit back down. He glanced at his watch and let out a sigh as he realized that there were hours still to go before Napoleon would be at his door. It felt like several lifetimes. 

Illya put his hand over his stomach to try to quell the butterflies racing madly within. It would start tonight. The love of a lifetime. Illya knew that to the outside observer he was perhaps being presumptuous, but he knew better. 

Illya looked down at his palm, at his heart line, tracing where it changed and deepened midway just as Napoleon's had. The first part of his line, though, showed a life of solitude, as opposed to Napoleon's life of casual relationships. 

He'd had another prescient moment. When he had touched Napoleon that last time and caressed his palm, he'd seen them together, years from now, as old men. They were walking hand in hand down a dirt road, bordered by fields of yellow flowers, in what looked to Illya to be the French countryside. His future, their future. 

He could hear the regular fortune teller outside speaking with the attendant. Illya stood and gathered his accoutrements. When she entered the inner room, they exchanged a few pleasantries, and then Illya made his way outside. Standing in the sunlight, he looked at his hand again and smiled, seeing the truth of his heart in the lines that crossed his palm.

The End


End file.
